


Summertime

by 37Cats



Series: Made Holy Through [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Rape/Non-con References, Slow Build, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37Cats/pseuds/37Cats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ragnar brought the priest before her, like a little boy proudly displaying a trophy (but with the curve of an apology in his lips and the slope of his shoulders), she feared he would be useless.  He looked soft, hunched and scared, and she worried he would not carry his weight, only burden them with another mouth to feed.</p><p>It is a long time before she glimpses possibility in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Ragnar brought the priest before her, like a little boy proudly displaying a trophy (but with the curve of an apology in his lips and the slope of his shoulders), she feared he would be useless.  He looked soft, hunched and scared, and she worried he would not carry his weight, only burden them with another mouth to feed.  
  
It is a long time before she glimpses possibility in him.

* * *

  
It is one of the best summers Lagertha can remember, full of the joy of the fight and the thrill of victory.  The lands to the West are unprepared for them and so their raiders sweep over the cities and towns and temples like a great wave of blood and destruction.  They slaughter the people and strip the land of its riches, and then recede to gather their strength and crest and crash again.  
  
The berserker flush of battle is always calmed by the gentle pleasure of returning home.  The fields are green and the animals fat and lazy.  Everything is peaceful and beautiful and sweet.    
  
The children rush out to meet them and she can embrace and kiss them as much as she likes.   Even Bjorn, prickly in his new manhood, allows Lagertha her kisses and caresses, although when Ragnar sweeps him off the ground to swing him around he complains.  
  
Athelstan hunches in the background or attempts to slip away into the house.  He jerks when Ragnar thumps him on the back and the muscles of his arm are stiff under her hand when she clasps it briefly in greeting.

* * *

  
Rollo always joins them for the evening meal, filling the room with loud boasting and laughter.  There are tales to tell of the raiding, both humorous and exciting (and if Rollo exaggerates a bit, well, that is the nature of fireside tales).  The children meet them tale for tale, and there may be some elaboration there too.  
  
Her children’s voices are like waterfalls, tumbling and bubbling around each other.  They hardly seem to stop for breath, each adding on to the story as they go along, elaborating and clarifying in excited chatter.  Sometimes, though, there is a pause in the narrative, like a piece is missing.  They will stumble for a moment, floundering, before Gyda frowns and Bjorn presses on with the story.  
  
The meal of the first night back is always long, there is so much to tell, and everyone lingers, unwilling to be the first to break away.  Eventually, though, the children can no longer hide their yawns and Rollo goes laughing into the night to find a woman.    
  
Then Lagertha and Ragnar are free to seek their own bed.  They fuck slowly and luxuriantly, taking advantage of the privacy they are not afforded on the raids.  
  
In the mornings the priest will not meet their eyes, but that is not so unusual.

* * *

  
On their third raid a warrior manages to slip under Ragnar’s defenses, delivering a lucky slash to Ragnar’s arm and driving him to his knees before Lagertha can bring the man down.  Ragnar returns the favor almost immediately, burying his ax in the head of a man behind her.  
  
The wound is not deep, although it bleeds freely.  Ragnar is the only one injured and so sulks at the good natured teasing of the rest of the party.  She binds up the cut for him and kisses the pout off his face, but he is still sullen on the journey home.    
  
Sometimes such childishness can be amusing and Lagertha will humor him with kisses and petting and endearments.  This time she has no patience for it.    
  
She lives the moment over and over again every time she closes her eyes. 

The flash of the warrior’s sword as it descends on Ragnar. 

The jerk of the blade in her hand as the warrior falls, the weight of his body dragging her arm down. 

The blue of Ragnar’s eyes as he looks up at her, arm streaming with blood. 

The brush of her husband's arm against her shoulder as he kills the man behind her.    
  
It is the last that truly haunts her.  Lagertha hesitated, was caught too long by the sight of Ragnar falling to his knees and by the crimson wash of his blood.  She should have turned away, returned to the fight.  She was weak in the midst of battle and it nearly cost her.    
  
The shame is unbearable, makes her snappish and hostile — especially with Ragnar.  He, in turn, is harsh with her.  Round and round they go, each exchange more bitter than the last.    
  
By the end of the journey home the boat is silent, no one daring to speak for fear of setting them off.  Floki twitches almost constantly and mutters intently to the dragon’s head that curves gracefully into the waves in front of them.

* * *

  
On the trek back home they are silent and do not acknowledge each other.  
  
The yard is empty when they get to the gate, and although the dogs come out to greet them as they slip through it still makes Lagertha uneasy.  Ragnar is too, if the glance he throws her is any indication.  They both drop their packs and move towards the house on silent feet.  
  
  Her stomach churns and she jumps when an unfamiliar laugh rings out from behind the house.  By unspoken agreement she goes right while Ragnar goes left.  
  
She has gotten to the corner before she recognizes the voice as Athelstan’s.  He sounds happy and she pauses to listen.  
  
“That is not a horse — it has six legs!” he exclaims.  
  
“Yes, it is,” Gyda sounds indignant, “it is Sleipnir.  He’s Loki’s son, Loki gave birth to him after he slept with a stallion.”  
  
Athelstan sounds dubious when he says, “I thought Loki was a man.”  
  
“Loki is a _god_ ,” the exasperation in Bjorn’s voice is cutting, “and, Gyda, Sleipnir has eight legs.”  
  
“Fine, I shall add some,” she snaps.  “Anyway, aren’t there any monsters in your religion?”  
  
The priest must make some silent move of denial, because Bjorn speaks next, saying, “That’s stupid — your stories must be very boring.”  
  
“Well, there are angels, who are sometimes described as having four faces — one a man, one a lion, one an eagle, and one an ox.  They have four wings and hooves instead of feet and they flash and glow like lightening.”  By the end Athelstan’s voice has dropped into the whisper of someone telling a ghost story.    
  
She would like to listen longer, but Ragnar takes that moment to jump out, howling.  Gyda screams, at first with shock and then with laughter.  Lagertha slips around the corner quietly and the picture she finds is pleasing.  
  
Gyda is up upon her father’s hip, even though she is getting too big for it, and both the priest and Bjorn are sprawled on their stomachs on the ground.  There is a smile on Athelstan’s face and it strikes her suddenly that he is beautiful.  
  
“Come look,” Gyda calls to her, “I am teaching Athelstan about the gods.”  She wiggles out of Ragnar’s arms to point to the ground.  “Also, I can write my name!’  
  
When she comes forward there is, indeed, a shape scratched into the earth that might, with the proper application of imagination, be an eight legged horse.  Under it is an awkward collection of lines that must be Gyda’s name.  
  
The pride is clear in Ragnar’s voice when he praises her, and then Bjorn is clamoring for attention, digging shaky lines into the earth with a stick to prove he has mastered the same art.  He grins up at them when he is done.  
  
“The ‘O’ is closed, like this,” Athelstan reaches over to correct it, “but apart from that it is very good.”  
  
Bjorn allows the priest to ruffle his hair for a moment before ducking his head away.  
  
“You are teaching them to write,” Lagertha comments.  The grin the priest turns on her snatches the breath from her lips.  
  
“It would be easier with ink and parchment,” he laughs, “but we make do.”  
  
She smiles at him and suddenly his face is back to familiar blankness.  He pushes up from the ground, eyes lowered, and mutters something about the evening meal as he hurries towards the house.  
  
Bjorn glares at her as Athelstan disappears around the corner.

* * *

  
That night Rollo comes to dinner already drunk and smelling faintly of sex.  The drink makes him vicious, and he turns it on the priest, teasing ruthlessly.  Athelstan huddles over his food and does not even look up. Later he disappears between one glance and the next, slipping away while Gyda has distracted the table with a tale of a particularly silly exploit.    
  
Neither Rollo or Ragnar seem to notice his disappearance. 

The children are subdued and the meal is over sooner than usual.  
  
Ragnar and Rollo have long since stumbled off to drink, and the children are snug in bed, before Lagertha stumbles over Athelstan.  He is slumped outside against the house, his book open in his lap.  It is surely too dark to read, and he is not murmuring in prayer as he often does.  Instead he sits in silence, head bowed, hair shadowing his eyes.  His hands smooth over the open page in front of him and his breathing is short and uneven.  
  
Lagertha slips away before he can see her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Floki grins at her from the door and bows her in with mocking elegance. His snickers chase after her as she goes slipping back into the dark warren of rooms behind the altar. The rest of the party might be satisfied with the gold and silver adorning the shrine, but she has more precious treasure to root out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, wow - this fic is really giving me issues with structure and that, along with life being life, is the reason for the long delay. I think I have it outlined more to my satisfaction now, so there shouldn't be any more really long breaks in posting - sorry about that! 
> 
> Also the series has a name now!

Their next raid brings them to the hall of a lord, a sprawl of large and small buildings circled by a low stone wall. There is a small temple, nestled in against the main hall.

 

Floki grins at her from the door and bows her in with mocking elegance. His snickers chase after her as she goes slipping back into the dark warren of rooms behind the altar. The rest of the party might be satisfied with the gold and silver adorning the shrine, but she has more precious treasure to root out.

 

She finds it in a small room, tucked unobtrusively into the back of the temple. She almost passes it by, sure that what she searches for must be under lock and key somewhere, hidden and jealously guarded. It is the tall stand below the window that catches her eye. On it is a bottle of ink and a page half covered with the sort of delicate markings that are also in Athelstan’s book.

 

The ink has been tipped over and Lagertha feels an unexpected ache at the way it spatters over the page below, drowning the symbols in a slick black wave. Whoever was working here left quickly and without much care for their work, a surprise, considering how the priest treats his own book like a delicate and sickly babe.

 

The room is stark and relatively barren, but she manages to collect a stack of blank parchment and several small bottles of ink. By the time she is content with her search the room is in disarray, destroyed completely, any and all possible hiding places ransacked, even the smallest of crevices torn open to her seeking eye.

 

Her spoils go into a small chest, the delicate glass of the bottles wrapped in the shirt she strips from a body in the hall. Perhaps it is the body of the temple scribe and in death he is providing the protection for his tools that he did not bother to provide in life.

 

She considers adding a few of the books to her haul, but the chest is already mostly full and heavy, and she does not want to fill another.

 

There is no need for extravagance, not for a slave.

 

* * *

 

Lagertha refuses to show anyone what is in the chest. She is ruthless when she smacks away Floki’s questing fingers and she ignores the strange looks thrown her way as she hunches protectively around it.

 

Ragnar returns last, weighed down with only a single oilcloth bag.

 

After they have packed and shoved off he settles next to Lagertha and opens it so that she may peek inside. The bag is full of stacks of parchment and three or four bottles of ink are nestled among the mess.

 

She laughs.

 

He grins at her and leans close to whisper, “From the lord’s hall.” His breath stirs her hair against her neck, warm and tickling like ghostly fingers.

 

She pats the lid of the trunk and murmurs back, “From the temple.”

 

They spend the journey back sharing secret smiles.

 

* * *

 

The first thing they do on their return, after hugs and kisses have been exchanged, is to usher Athelstan into the main room. Lagertha pushes him down to sit and Ragnar places their gifts before him with a little flourish.

 

No one moves.

 

It is perplexing.

 

If the children were in the priest’s place they would hardly let the packages touch the table before opening them. Instead he is staring at the chest and bag like they are dangerous, as if touching them will bring him some grave injury. She wonders what they have done to make him fear their gifts.

 

Finally Ragnar makes an irritated sound and upends the bag onto the table. Sheets of parchment flutter everywhere and the bottles of ink clatter in all directions. They all lunge for them at the same time, Ragnar cursing. She should have made him wrap them, she knows how clumsy he can be with his things.

 

Athelstan is the one to catch the bottles before they can smash to the ground. His hands tremble as he sets them upright, but the turn of his wrist is sure, slim fingers delicate despite the well chewed nails and the smudges of dirt upon them. Once the bottles are lined up his hands flicker around them, fingers lighting briefly on the curves of their sides, tracing the wax sealing them closed.

 

He remains silent, eyes lowered.

 

“So you can teach our children to write,” Ragnar sounds far too pleased. She wants to hit him.

 

Normally that tone would bring at least a slight twist of well hidden amusement to Athelstan’s mouth. Now he only hunches his shoulders a little more. If he chews at his lip much harder he will draw blood.

 

“Next time we will bring books, if you want,” she offers, as much to sooth the sudden tightness from her husband’s back as to ease the priest.

 

Athelstan gasps, sharp, and flinches. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “Yes - if you would, that would be —” he presses his mouth into a hard line, jaw tight, and runs a finger hesitantly along the edge of one of the scattered sheets.

 

Some instinct prompts Lagertha to reach out and brush his hair from his eyes. His lashes are clumped with damp and he pushes into her touch briefly before pulling away. 

 

She tries to remember to be gentle as she pulls Ragnar away to begin the evening meal.

 

Athelstan is silent as he collects the parchment, but his smile is clear when he accepts the pages Gyda and Bjorn have picked up from the floor.

 

* * *

 

Ragnar is not his best in the mornings, especially the first few days after a raid. He grumbles and clings when she pulls herself out of bed and stumbles to follow her only after sharp prodding. He spends the time before the morning meal draped over her or, on the mornings Lagertha shrugs him off, cuddling Gyda on his lap.

 

This morning there is a chill to the air and Lagertha has to pull all the coverings off the bed before Ragnar stirs. She is snappish and he is petulant and both Gyda and Bjorn roll their eyes excessively.

 

Once it is clear that neither Lagertha or Gyda will put up with his pouting Ragnar turns his attention to the priest.

 

Athelstan is bent studiously over the cooking fire, humming a little, so Ragnar catches him entirely be surprise when he presses up against his back. She expects the priest to jerk or yelp but instead he goes loose and pliant, moving easily when Ragnar wraps his arms around the priest’s waist, letting Ragnar pull him firmly into the curve of his body without any protest.

 

Ragnar nuzzles into the curls at the nape of Athelstan’s neck and grins smugly across the fire at her. If he was closer Lagertha would slap him.

 

“Father,” Bjorn says from beside her, “Father, stop.” His voice is heavy with distress and his eyes are fixed on the priest’s face.

 

Athelstan’s eyes are flat, fixed on some distant point on the far wall, and all signs of life have left his face. He does not respond when Ragnar shakes him, nor when Lagertha calls his name.  It is only when Ragnar releases him, prompted by Gyda’s high, sharp sound of fear, that the trance seems to break.

 

The priest shivers when Ragnar’s arms leave him and he blinks at them all in terrified confusion. When Gyda rushes to him he lifts his arms to ward her off, palms out and beseeching, and stumbles from the house.

 

Ragnar catches Gyda up when she moves to follow him, and holds her fast as she bites and kicks. She does not settle until Bjorn grabs at her arms and shouts her name, and then it is only to sink into tears.

 

* * *

 

After Lagertha has calmed Gyda, after she has done her best to ease the guilt from Ragnar’s eyes, and given up on breaking through Bjorn’s angry silence, she goes to find the priest.

 

She does not need to look far, for which she is thankful. He is slumped by the shore, small and collapsed in on himself.

 

She settles next to him on the log and turns her eyes out to the water.

 

He is quiet and she lets him have his silence. Finally he shifts beside her, lets a soft sigh stutter into the silence between them. It is not much, but it is enough.

 

“Have you seen Ragnar’s scar, just here?” She traces her hand along the curve of Athelstan’s right shoulder, leaving a good few inches of space between her fingertips and the rough cloth of his shirt. His eyes are still distant, but he nods.

 

“I gave that to him the night we met,” she grimaces at the memory, but smiles when he arches an eyebrow in surprise. “I was shield-maiden for another jarl, a few days ride south of here, and by some strange chance we had both landed raiding parties near the same town. It was the end of the season, and it had been a disappointment, the wealth of the land was running thin and it was even more so with two parties fighting for the same scraps.

 

“I was in a smithy when three men found me — they were drunk and did not care who I was. I took down two and Ragnar stumbled in to finish the last one.

 

“He told me I was beautiful and tried to touch my arm, and so I cut him.”

 

“That is not how I imagined that story would go,” the priest snorts, and peeks at her from the corner of his eye.

 

“Yes, well,” and here is something to smile over, “he followed me home and camped before my door for all the rest of the summer, and winter and spring too, until I finally took pity on him and invited him inside.”

 

Athelstan is smiling softly now, eyes pale under the heavy fall of his lashes, and he leans close when she gestures him forward.

 

They are hunched together like two girls trading secrets. She wishes she could reach out to braid his hair.

 

“My husband is not stupid,” she tells him, “he is a warrior and a man and so will always blunder through the world a little blindly, but he is clever enough to see when there is something he is missing, so long as you bring it to his attention properly.”

 

His smile turns unsure, then, and sidelong, as though he is not convinced of his place in their conversation. The curve of his lips is beautiful, but the way his mouth drops open and his eyes widen when she flips out her sax to present it to him hilt first is exquisite.

 

“So long as he is not too badly damaged,” she wiggles the blade at him until he takes it, “you may do as you wish. I have no such reservations about Rollo, or any other man.”

 

His hand around the hilt is tentative, fingers awkward. She does not reach out to correct his grip.

 

“You should get Gyda to show you how to handle it, she is better with short blades than Bjorn,” she takes a moment to frown, “although it would probably be best if you did not say so to him.”

 

Athelstan’s laughter takes them both by surprise.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of two other fics - one for each of the seasons, because I'm original like that. From my research the vikings only divided the year into either two (Summer and Winter) or three (Summer, Winter, and Spring) seasons - I'm going with three because that works best for the structure I have planned.
> 
> Also - how does one get a beta? because I need one for serious.


End file.
